


Let me be your shelter

by Ange_desu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Bunker, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Fluff, Guilt, Home, Hurt Sam, M/M, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Sharing a Bed, mentions of darkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:08:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_desu/pseuds/Ange_desu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brothers come back home, but there is a heavy weight looming over them.<br/>Sam is exhausted but the guilt of dooming the world (again) won't let him sleep.</p><p>/Includes very subtle and soft wincest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me be your shelter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jarpadsangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarpadsangel/gifts).



> This post is written after watching SPN s11e02, so slight spoilers up to that point.  
> It's alternative end for the episode - they return to bunker, but there's no Cas, and they take a little break to eat, get themselves together, and sleep before running off to fix what they broke.
> 
> I think this is the first proper SPN fanfic I've ever wrote, so I don't know how well I did. (I'll appreciate comments.)

Even as steps echoed on metal stairs, the familiarity and security of the place refused to sink into Sam’s consciousness. Too much has happened, and this place, too, has witnessed unnecessary and tragic bloodshed. Yet it was the only home he’s ever had, and he had finally returned to it, his brother safe and sound by his side.

The lights flickered and turned on, as if they were drowsily woken up from a long sleep. What they uncovered was a pile of books pyramided together, and a lot of general mess. It didn’t look like the cozy home the place once was, but it was theirs nevertheless, and Sam could feel a nostalgic tug in his chest. This was where they belonged, no matter the state of the place. If something, it was a reflection of all that the brothers have been through, and it was also something that could be fixed and taken care of. Maybe it wasn’t the brightest thing, to pour his hopes into something so feeble like a couple of walls, but Sam could not help it. He needed something to hold onto, and the bunker seemed to gladly provide just that, be it an illusion or not. 

The Winchesters proceeded to walk further in, turning on the lights as they went. A dark cloud loomed over them, the recent events and heavy thoughts about darkness clinging to them. It was like walking through a sticky, knee-deep mud that they themselves put underneath them – and under the feet of the whole world – but these walls… Their steps resonated through the bunker, clear and pure, and it seemed to strip them of some of that weight. 

Was this what home should feel like? 

They made it a point to have a dinner together. Kitchen wasn’t put to use in a while, yet it was as ready as always to serve their hands and fill their stomachs. They made cheap sandwiches, quick and simple, and both took a traditional bottle of beer. They cheered, glass clanking in the collision, faces stripped of smiles. Neither of them felt like talking about all the bad that surrounded them, all that seemingly endless evil that painted their hands red, so they ate mostly in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable; they both reveled in each other’s presence, and there was a wordless appreciation of what little they had left. 

After the dinner, Dean went on to clean some of the mess. He made sure to avoid the pyramid of books in the middle, because he didn’t feel like starting something overwhelming and time consuming – plus, categorizing books, that was Sam’s domain. Always has been. And although Dean often made fun of his brother because of it, he also felt a deep respect towards his dedication and patience with such things. Whenever he tried to imagine his brother at peace, it came to him as the image of Sam contently curled up somewhere, a book in his hands, gaze focused on the pages as he drank them in. He didn’t feel like he had something like that himself. It was always junk food, booze, women. Distractions. What made him content wasn’t an activity. It was a person. It was all these times when he could watch his brother be okay, be at peace, be happy. All those flickers of smile and dimples in cheeks, all the meaningful glances and light touches between them. That was what felt like Dean’s whole life purpose sometimes. 

Sam went to take a shower, and he couldn’t stop the overwhelming appreciation of how cleansing and relaxing the stream of water was. He stood there for a long time, motionless, eyes closed. His breaths were hidden behind a veil of noise and steam, and there was no sound of the world that could come to him and steal this moment away from him. It felt almost like peace, except Sam couldn’t remember how peace felt anymore. 

He opened his hazel eyes as he bowed his head and brought his hands in front of him so he could look at them. There was no blood, and there were no black veins, and there was no dirt on them. And yet his fingers trembled, and the fear he had felt before, when he was still infected, refused to leave completely. Perhaps because things were still so very, very wrong. Or maybe because he still, after everything, wasn’t clean. Even the trials, unfinished as they were, couldn’t wipe that stain from his soul. 

A distressed sigh broke the loud silence, and he stopped the water. Cold air brushed against his naked body, and he wrapped himself up in a huge, soft towel, spoiling his bruised and scarred skin for a few short moments before he put on his shirt and some sweatpants. He stumbled a bit and leant on the wall, and he recognized the way the world got a bit blurry and how his eyelids were hard to keep open. He hasn’t slept properly in what felt like eternity. 

So he padded through the hallways until he reached his room – the room that was still quite bare and impersonal, and yet offered him a very strong, sentimental feeling upon his return. Avoiding any useless movements, as his energy levels hit negative numbers, he let his body sink into the mattress and closed his eyes. 

An expectation that this is all it would take to lull him to sleep was met with an unpleasant truth. There were things, many disturbing things, filling his head and keeping him awake. The memories flooded in freely, accompanied with the threats of past, present, and future. Possible events, possible endings, possible catastrophical tragedies that were all his to bear. The knowledge that he was the one who caused all this – that once again, he was ending the world – was rooted deep within him, dark and poisonous. He would not hesitate and chose to do it again in a heartbeat, if it would save his brother, but that didn’t mean the consequences weren’t terrible, and the responsibility his. The guilt mixed with all the agony and disorder he has seen out on the streets, and the bodies came to him, vivid and clear behind his eyelids. 

He used to think that, as long as they can save more people than gets killed because of them, they are doing the right thing. That saving people itself is going to keep him afloat and going. But his existence seemed to constantly endanger the world, and his choices led to bloodshed and suffering, and the scale has tipped and completely overturned a long time ago. It was no longer the truth that he saves more people than dies for him; he merely manages to save a few from the masses of people he condemns for destruction. 

His head spun as he sat up, mind hazed and slightly delirious from the serious lack of sleep, and he stumbled out of the bed. He didn't know what he intended to do, but there was some instinct in him that pushed him to seek out comfort he didn't deserve. And so his steps brought him to the hallway, and then deeper through the bunker’s labyrinth, until Dean was standing in front of him, and he was falling, and Dean’s hands were being wrapped around him… 

“Sam.” There was concern in his brother’s voice, and he felt a needle of pain pierce through him as he recognized it. He was trying so hard not to worry his brother, to let Dean focus on what was truly important this whole time, and now he was ruining it all. “Hey. Hey!” Warm hands cupped his cheeks and Sam realized he was now seated on the floor. He also realized that his eyes were closed. It took a lot of effort to open them, and he met the greenest gaze, full of worry. 

Without thinking, his hand reached forward and his fingers entangled themselves into the soft fabric of Dean’s flannel shirt. He tugged, clutching the bit of fabric with all his strength, feeling the desperation that’s piled up in his soul and which he refused to get expressed. The world blurred, and he felt stinging in his eyes, and he hated it. Bowing his head, he hid his face from the observing gaze of his brother.

“Sam. Sammy. Talk to me, what’s wrong?” In Dean’s head, it all became very singular and straightforward – suddenly, there was no darkness, no Amara, no world to be worried about. There was just his brother, weak and vulnerable and unable to stand on his own. Just his baby brother needing his help. 

“I can’t sleep,” Sam muttered quietly, unwilling to explain any further. He was searching and hoping for understanding without additional words. It felt like the world itself sat on his shoulders, dyed pitch-black from the darkness he himself had unleashed. His chest tightened, and his body shivered under the weight. 

“Come here,” Dean’s voice came from very close, as the older Winchester leant forward to grab his brother around his chest and help him stand. Sam wavered a little, his feet unsteady, but he let Dean do what he knew how to do best – save his little brother when he needed him the most. 

Dean led him to his own room; the walls themselves breathed the Winchester’s essence, and despite the display of weapons, it felt like the coziest place on the whole wide Earth. Soon, Sam felt the soft mattress underneath him, and the bed sheets that smelled like safety. Unconsciously, he pawed at them, burying his fingers into the fabric. A weight made the mattress drop at his side as Dean sat down right next to him. Strong, steady arms shifted younger Winchester’s exhausted body into a comfortable position, and then the big brother allowed himself to lie down on the empty space. 

Insecure hazel met with protective green, and Dean could not help but notice how washed out the color of Sam’s eyes seemed, how dark the circles underneath were, and how all the scrapes on his face were healing painfully slowly. “Close your eyes, little brother,” he pleaded, his voice like a guiding light in the darkness. Gently, he put his arm over his baby brother, and he pulled himself closer so their foreheads touched. 

A small, innocent gesture like that was strong enough to overwhelm Sam, as the sense of security and affection sank into him. He was pulled somewhere he was afraid to venture alone; out into the vulnerability, into regions where his defenses dropped completely and he was left to rely on someone else’s protection. But Dean was there, guarding every little crack on Sam’s heart with infinite care that transcended fates of worlds. 

“I’m here, Sammy,” he whispered, his breath tickling Sam’s skin as he was so close. “Forget about the world for now. We will save it. We will fix everything, like we always do.” His words were simple, sweetened by layers of honesty and care, and to Sam, they were like a lullaby.

“We need to save everyone,” he mumbled sleepily, and in response he could feel Dean pulling him closer. The older Winchester pressed a brief kiss into his little brother’s forehead, before he securely wrapped him in a cuddle. Sam could feel the lingering sensation of the kiss, a sort of warmth and undeniable affection that made him feel so weak without providing any danger in return. 

“We will save as many as we can,” Dean promised, his hand soothingly rubbing Sam’s back. This was important to him, and he wondered how he could ever forget about it. Despite the physical height, the brother that was now curled up in his arms felt so small it brought his thoughts back to that little kid who cried into his pillow when he thought no one was looking. He’d come and gently pull him into his arms at times like those, and only then would his little brother fall asleep. No matter the monster, no matter the fear, no matter the agony and suffering and terrible things they saw or did, once his brother was safely in his arms, it was all fine. For both of them. “But first let’s fix you up.”

There was nothing beyond this. Nothing could be bigger than the feeling that came from holding onto his brother, nothing could ever describe the emotion of such a simple gesture. It was safety, and home, and peace. It was that strong, infinite love tying them together that kept them both going, that let them stand up over and over again after each stumble and each fall. 

And so what they needed right now, in all this mess, was simply each other, right there in the familiarity and isolation of the bunker. Limbs tangled and fingers clutching onto each other’s clothes, sharing warmth and feeling each other’s breaths, they were finally able to escape the rain of shards and, in the shelter of each other’s arms, they fell asleep.


End file.
